


Comóradh

by agdgoddess



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-19 12:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18135554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdgoddess/pseuds/agdgoddess
Summary: How much changes in a single fucking year.This year, no Doc, no Roc, no pub, no laughter, no asinine green decor. They lie on the unyielding motel bed, Connor on his stomach and Murphy on his back, limbs barely brushing. Empty beer cans and dirty clothes litter the carpet around them, TV droning in the background unwatched.





	Comóradh

 

_"Fuck, your hair smells like wine, Murph!"_

_"Fine, I'll go shower then."_

_"Don't you dare fuckin' stop!" groaned Connor, stretching to lick a stripe from the sweaty hollow of his brother's throat up his Adam's apple to his scruffy chin. "The way you bashed that guy's head in, Christ!"_

_Murphy moaned, thrusting faster, shifting slightly to repeatedly hit that fucking spot inside Connor. "How you lit that fat fuck's ass on fire! Bleedin' deadly!" Murphy growled into his ear._

_"Harder, Murph!" begged Connor shamelessly. "Yes! Fuck!"_

_They fucked like it was their last time, oblivious that it almost was._

 

* * *

 

_Joyeux anniversaire..._

 

It could have ended so differently with his brains decorating the brick wall and trash heap behind him or with Connor's broken body twisted and unmoving on the pavement next to him. Murphy's no fool.

Their calling chips away at him, every facet of him that can be exhausted is. Connor, too. He merely hides it better.

Murphy understands that God demands due sacrifice for neither of them dying that day. And he'll continue to pay it. Ridding the world of evil men is their penance.

Connor is his absolution. Of that, Murphy's damn fucking certain.

 

_Feliz aniversario..._

 

How much changes in a single fucking year.

This year, no Doc, no Roc, no pub, no laughter, no asinine green decor. They lie on the unyielding motel bed, Connor on his stomach and Murphy on his back, limbs barely brushing. Empty beer cans and dirty clothes litter the carpet around them, TV droning in the background unwatched. The white noise from it fills the silence around them. Not uncomfortable, never that between them, but Connor wonders if he should just break it already as it's speaking volumes.

He passes the bottle of Jameson back to Murphy, who doesn't even have to crane his neck up to expertly take a hearty sip straight from the bottle as Connor watches those muscles reflex. Murphy's the only fucker he knows that can drink on his back like that. Connor's tried a few times and more booze always flowed out of his mouth than what made it in.

They're both equally adept at swallowing every drop, though.

They swallow down everything these days.

 

_Frohes Jubiläum..._

 

The rain splatters against the window, melting the lingering pockets of dirty, crusty snow. The only indication the sun is going down is that the ashen clouds outside darken to charcoal. They've been in this shithole outside of Chicago for three days. They should move on but neither has the heart for it.

Murphy made the half-assed suggestion that morning of going and seeing the Chicago River run green, but Connor only snorted in response and that was that. Probably for the best, as the CPD is not nearly as sympathetic to their cause as their compatriots in Boston. The Italian teamsters lying in the morgue remind them that two Irish assholes are cleaning up their city, doing what they can't.

Pride's a deadly sin for a reason.

Or, more likely, those men in blue don't take too kindly to any interference on their take. Murphy can only imagine the hell they're receiving from their real boss. The fucking Outfit has its disgusting claws in everything and even worse men will climb up the ranks to replace those fallen brethren.

They're using a bucket to try to drain the ocean and they know it. They endure.

 

_Felice anniversario..._

 

Connor startles awake, unaware that he's even fallen asleep, fingers clutched in an iron grip around the half-empty bottle of whiskey inches from his face. One open eye registers through bleary vision that Murphy's no longer by his side. He sleeps too much these days. Murphy doesn't sleep anywhere near enough.

He's wiping the faint traces of drool from his mouth when there it is again. What woke him.

Wet, silken trail. Heated breath. The back of his thigh tingles as that winsome sensation makes it way up to lave the crease where leg meets swell of buttock.

He's bare, towel that had been wrapped around his waist thrown carelessly to the floor. Twists his head to see Murphy on his hands and knees, one set of limbs on either side of his right leg, effectively caging it, the only point of contact with Connor the flat of his tongue drawing mindless designs on the skin of his ass before the point of it dips shallowly, teasingly swiping into and along, dampening the entire length of his crevice.

"Not tonight, Murph." He's already spreading his legs wider though.

"Yes, Conn. Tonight. Now." Warning bite to meat of his cheek muffles that resolute voice. Murphy shifts, putting his body between Connor's thighs, scooting down on his belly and using his shoulders to roughly push and keep them that way as his strong, sure hands knead then pry him apart to give Murphy access to Connor's most intimate place.

It's filthy as fuck but that doesn't stop him from moaning. In fact, that's _precisely_ what causes the noise Connor makes as he shudders at the probing contact.

"Gonna lick you open," Murphy whispers between insistent laps and Connor would die of embarrassment, of shame if it were anyone else other than his twin. Heat still blooms on his face, mostly from the arousal making it's presence known as his cock begins to fill. A bit, however, from feeling overly exposed as Murphy focuses his attentions so expertly and eagerly. Connor succumbs, hips rutting without his permission into the faded bedspread. Murphy chuckles, hums with appreciation, pleased that his brother's obviously pleased, those vibrations ricocheting through Connor's being before settling into the thickening warmth spreading within his abdomen. Pressing thumbs hold Connor open while forceful fingers spread to flex and grip, effectively stilling Connor and holding him exactly where Murphy wants him.

As his vision starts to white, surge, pulse behind clenched eyelids, Connor absently wonders if they'll have another vision tomorrow night. He dreads it at the same time he longs for it. Confirmation that they're on the righteous path, that they're doing God's will.

Murphy's wicked tongue reminds him just what a fallen sinner he is, that he, too, is perfectly capable of breaking the Almighty's laws.

He doesn't give one flying fuck.

 

_С годовщиной..._

 

Slicked fingers have replaced Murphy's mouth, tongue now busy worshiping the shifting plains of his brother's smooth back. Licks the sheen of sweat gathering at the base of Connor's spine, salty skin the perfect wine and he's drunk with it.

"Fuck," rasps Connor, jerking at another skillful twist of those digits inside of him. The long-drawn groan that follows means he's more than ready to be truly filled and Murphy's more than willing to oblige him.

"Turn over, deartháir," Murphy breathes into his ear, nipping tenderly at his earlobe. Connor shoots him a confused look over his shoulder, but Murphy's already pulling on said shoulder to make him flip over to his back. "Need to see you." And, Jesus fucking Christ, Murphy _does_. He needs to see his twin's eyes progressively darken until they flash then haze when he comes. He needs to see that golden head and flushed face thrown back, to feel those sharp breaths sweetly caress his own face from parted, ravaged lips, to smell the musk of sex at the hollow of Connor's throat. In that moment, Murphy has to reaffirm that he's the one making Connor writhe and whine, that they are still them.

Not to mourn everything they've lost with nothing gained in return, not to remember that one year ago today was the last normal day of their lives.

No.

Rather, to relive that last carefree fuck they'd had before everything changed. Before ConnorandMurphy MacManus became the Saints, forced into the shadows, living ghosts of their former selves.

To celebrate the solitary thing about them that hasn't been altered. Melting into one another, using their bodies to fill in the deficits of the other, consuming and fusing both their individual weaknesses and strengths. Black hole before the supernova.

Murphy takes his time entering Connor, gentle now because he knows it will turn demanding and urgent soon enough. Connor's soft sigh as he finally presses in to the hilt twists his raw heart, the amount of love Murphy has for his brother will surely kill him someday. He waits, bracing on palms bracketing either side of Connor's face and doesn't start moving until one of Connor's strong legs winds around his lower back, hips hitching up slightly, encouraging Murphy to proceed.

That first proper thrust almost overwhelms him, as does the next and the next. Connor growls, hands reaching up, one embedding itself into strands shades darker than his own. The other he rests upon Murphy's cheek, thumb swiping reverently over his swollen lips. Murphy opens, catches the pad between his teeth and bites as he delivers a particularly well-angled, deep stroke that causes Connor to curse and moan, eyes fluttering shut. Then he throws his head back, exposing that tempting throat right on schedule, exactly how Murphy needed to see.

They steadily pick up the pace, experienced rhythm increasing as Connor gives as much as he takes. His hands have drifted back to the bed, fingers clenching around the covers as Murphy's name lingers on his lips. And, like that, it becomes beyond imperative that Murphy gets fucking closer.

Settling down onto his elbows, Murphy slides his arms up and under Connor's armpits, curling his hands over his shoulders, and uses the leverage to make his thrusts more forceful, precise, acute. He presses his forehead upon Connor's own, his view made up entirely of electric Connor blue, gathering storm there betraying Connor's impending release. Murphy tastes it coming, with his own just a few erratic heartbeats behind.

"Hold on to me, Conn."

Connor holds on, and Murphy fiercely clings back.

 

_Comóradh sásta..._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Sláinte!


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